


Backpfeifengesicht

by Pepperbyun



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Asexual Character, Crack, Demisexuality, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Excessive Swearing, Fluff, Ghost Adventures AU, Ghost Hunting, Ghosts, Humor, Multi, Paranormal, Seung Gil has a death wish, Slow Burn, but it's okay because Phichit is there to protect him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-25 17:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12536872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pepperbyun/pseuds/Pepperbyun
Summary: “Hi, my name is Viktor Nikiforov. I’ve never believed in ghosts until I came face to face with one. So I set out on a quest to capture what I once saw onto video… With no big camera crews following us around, I am joined only by my fellow investigator, Katsuki Yuuri and our equipment tech, Phichit Chulanont. The three of us will travel to the some of the most highly active paranormal locations, where we will spend an entire night, being locked down from dusk until dawn… Raw… Extreme… These are our VAAP Adventures™.”“Shut the fuck up, Viktor.”Or, Vik and the gang (try to) go ghost hunting.





	Backpfeifengesicht

**Author's Note:**

> *The sections of the first chapter are out of order but the chapters after are not so just bare with us  
> *Updates are highly irregular sorry, we have episode two done but keep in mind that we are seniors and we have shit to do  
> *This is based in New York  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Season 1: High School Arc, Episode 1: Origin Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seniors: Yuuri, Viktor, Chris  
> Juniors: Otabek, Phichit, Seung Gil  
> Sophomores: none  
> Freshman: Yurio
> 
> Fair warning this chapter is a clusterfuck, it has been chopped to bits and then reassembled so everything is kinda mismatched and messy but we dont have the time and we dont want to risk our sanity to rewrite it   
> the following chapters are (hopefully) better than this shit fest

**Episode 1: Origin Story**

_10:39 PM, Oct. 31st, 2016, Hasetsu Castle--Yuuri’s room_

“God dammit, Viktor.”

“Yuuri, please.”

“I really don’t think this is going to work.”

“No, no, no, Yuuri, I know it will. Trust me on this.”

“Viktor, the costume is too _tight_.”

“It’s supposed to be like that.”

“Is there _supposed_ to be a bulge there?”

“Uh, yes.”

“You hesitated.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

_“Nooooo —"_

_“Yes_ ,” Yuuri groans, retreating his hands from where he struggles with the zipper on the back of Viktor’s costume and sighs heavily. He flicks his wrists to relieve the cramps as he looks around his room for anything that can help. Makkachin lies lazily on the floor, airily observing the whole affair. When nothing else comes to mind, Yuuri turns back to his boyfriend.

“Why don't you just change into another outfit?” he suggests again. “We still have that other costume in storage from when you went all shopaholic a few days ago.”

“Easy for you to say, you're dressed up as _katsudon_ ,” Viktor sasses back. He twists around to grasp at the zipper, eyes straining as he sneaks a glance at the pitiful sight. The black dress wraps almost painfully around his waist and chest. “I won't do any justice to Kim Kardashian if I stop half way now. Look, my butt-implants are deflating.”

Yuuri ignores his comment as he scratches Makkachin under the chin. “I'm dressed as _katsudon_ because—if you forgot—there's children at this party. Children and _adults_. Teachers, even. My mom invited _everyone_ ,” Yuuri reprimands. He places his hands on his hips in a chiding manner as he watches his boyfriend flail around in frustration.

“We’re in highschool. I doubt anybody here has the purity left to be scarred by me,“ Viktor justifies, still helplessly fiddling with the lining on his back. When he fails to fix it, his shifts his hands to his butt-implants and wails.

“They're so flat now, Yuuri!” he cries.

Yuuri huffs. “Then just change into the other costume.”

“But what am I supposed to do with this empty champagne bottle now?” Viktor sulks, lifelessly waving the bottle around. Yuuri takes it from him before he can whack either of them in the head.

“Leave it for Ms. Okukawa. She’ll probably be more lenient on you, considering her drunk history. Besides, the party already started downstairs hours ago, and to top it off, people are already getting drunk off of butterbeer,” Yuuri assures, patting his shoulder in comfort in an attempt to change the topic to a better, more appropriate one

Viktor only sighs instead of continuing the conversation, shifting the focus back at his failed attempt to recreate Kim Kardashian’s persona. Yuuri gives him a flat look at the change of topic, but follows suit anyway. But as Viktor goes to sit down on the bed, the crisp sound of tearing fabric slices through the air. Neither say a thing; it’s silent except for the shrill scream of Viktor’s soul leaving his body.

_“Yuuuuuri,"_ he wails.

Yuuri gapes at the clear rip that stretches down his back. “I’m sure that your attempted tribute to Kim Kardashian will be applauded by everyone else on social media,” he assures hopefully.  

“But, _Yuuri,_ ” Viktor whines, “ _Kim Kardashian_.”

“Kim Kardashian would be proud.”

Viktor whimpers, shoulders drooping. The dress rips even more.

Yuuri stares at his meek and miserable posture, and quickly looks around for something that can cheer him up, crossing the room to pluck a single post-it note from a collage of others on the wall.

_“Your ass could rival Kim Kardashian's,"_ Yuuri proclaims in a great, dignified voice. Viktor lets out a huff, but remains solemn, hugging a pillow to his chest. Yuuri plucks another post-it from the wall.

_“You can call me Nemo, because I’m not afraid to touch the butt.”_

Still no response, but Viktor shifts ever so slightly.

_“Do you have a shovel? Because I’m diggin’ that ass._ ”

Viktor chuckles under his breath. Yuuri takes that as an initiative, and walks back to the bed, a series of post-its in his hand.

_“I’m an astronaut. Do you know what my next mission is?”_

More shuffling, then with a small voice: _“To explore Uranus.”_

Yuuri laughs, and joins Viktor on the bed. With an arm around his slumped shoulders, he says, “You know, you look like my next boyfriend.”

Viktor finally glances up from the pillow, its case now smudged with foundation and eyeshadow. It takes everything in Yuuri to not cringe at the mascara running down his cheeks. “But I _am_ your boyfriend.”

“Exactly. And you know what boyfriends do?”

Viktor stares at him, teary eyes hopeful and full of anticipation. “What _do_ they do, Yuuri?”

“They wear matching Halloween costumes,” Yuuri responds, tone dead.

Viktor huffs and wipes the tears from his eyes. “Damn, I thought I got you there for a second.”

“The only person your acting can fool is Ms. Okukawa. Leave that for the theatre and get your chopsticks costume on.”

_“Fine_ ,” Viktor finally relents, exasperated, and stands up to strip out of the dress. He tosses the torn clothing at Yuuri’s face, who doesn’t have time to flinch, as his eyes have already caught sight of Viktor’s lower region.

So that bulge _wasn’t_ supposed to be there, got it.

Yuuri, too distracted by the significant bulge in Viktor’s briefs, doesn’t process the rest of what his boyfriend says.

“—being your chopstick is so much better than being _any_ of the Kardashians,” he hears him proclaim triumphantly. Yuuri physically snaps himself out of the trance, trying but failing to look elsewhere.

“I’ll just, uh, be downstairs if you need me.” Yuuri hastily backs out of the room. “I heard that Phichit started going crazy with his dicks— _pics_. I meant pictures. Phichit’s selfies. Yes, the selfies that Phichit takes.”

Viktor doesn’t pay him any mind, nor does he make any effort to cover himself, only stares confusedly at Yuuri. He tilts his head, hands resting comfortably on his naked hips.

“The chopdicks— _sticks_. The chopsticks costume is the storage room. Wait, you already know that. Uh, I’m just going to— _bye—_ ”

Viktor stares at his retreating figure down the hallway. He turns to Makkachin.

“Do you think he noticed my rock hard abs?”

Makkachin only follows his boyfriend out of the room.

 

* * *

 

_11:19 PM, Oct. 31st, 2016, Hasetsu Castle--Upstair’s Hallway_

After finding some loose clothes to wear—notably, his green _yukata_ that he’s come to love every time he visits Yuuri—Viktor walks aimlessly in the hallways in search of the storage room. Sure, he’s always been at Yuuri’s house, but this is his first time venturing this deep by himself. He checks his watch. It’s already been hours since the party started but he still hasn’t arrived yet.

The corridor is dark, only the moonlight outside serves as an aid to his sight. But even then, he can barely see in front of him. Has the corridor always been this long? Maybe Viktor is just walking slowly.

The floorboards beneath him occasionally creak, and it feels as though the creaking is only getting louder with each passing step. Viktor shivers.  

_No_ , this is not the time to get paranoid. He has to find the storage room, change into his costume, and join Yuuri and the rest of the party downstairs.

It’s only Halloween, how bad can it be?

The floor creaks behind him. Viktor flinches and subconsciously quickens his pace.

The storage room, the storage room, where the _fuck_ is the storage room?

He finally reaches the last door after looking through all the others and of course, it just had to be the one at the end of the hallway. Viktor is about to sigh in relief when he hears something move behind the door.

He halts, listens.

A _thump_. Viktor recoils away from the door.

Is someone else up here with him? Some _thing_ else?

Another _thump_ , louder this time.

Holy fuck.

No, no, _no_. Ghosts and monsters aren’t real. There’s no such thing. If anything is up here, it would be an intruder. Viktor takes out his phone to capture evidence. Prematurely convincing himself that there is, in fact, a horrendous intruder in Yuuri’s house, he starts recording.

Okay, Viktor can do this. If it’s an intruder, then that means it’s Viktor’s job as future husband to ward off any enemies, right? Of course it is. Taking a deep breath, he turns on his flash.

Prepping himself up with the power of love, Viktor courageously grasps the door handle and prepares to push open the door when—

“What are you doing?”

Needless to say, it’s a lie if Viktor said he didn’t let out a short scream.

_“FUCK_ —who are you?” Viktor breathes out, clutching at his chest. He places his hand on the wall for support as he shines his phone’s flashlight at the unknown voice. The stranger flinches at the bright light and quickly shields their face.

“What the hell? Put that away, damn it,” they demand in a voice that clearly screams _I’m an emo teenager in my “My Chemical Romance” phase_. Viktor huffs, defensively straightening up his posture, yet yielding as he lowers his phone.

“Who are you? What are you doing up here?” he interrogates. At this point, Viktor is literally ready to fuck shit up because _who the hell is this guy?_

“I could say the same thing for you, dickass,” the stranger snarkily replies, rubbing their eyes. It’s not hard for Viktor to be offended by that.

“I’m Yuuri’s boyfriend, what’s your excuse?”

The stranger, now seen dressed in dirty rags and half his hair up in a short ponytail, frowns at Viktor’s seemingly legitimate response. It takes a while for him to respond, and if it had been any longer, Viktor probably would have ran to Yuuri with his tail between his legs.

“I’m looking for the bathroom, genius.”

“Well, that certainly took you a long time to respond. Suspicious, much?” Viktor narrows his eyes and leans in to examine the stranger. On a closer inspection, his costume is actually made from _very_ dirty rags, sloppily put together with minimal effort—and it shows, too. Viktor can tell this guy had previously no intention on coming to the party, which inevitably makes this whole ordeal even more abnormal than it already is.

“What are you even supposed to be?” Viktor critiques as he tenaciously picks at the sleeve of his costume. “You look like you just came out of Great Depression.”

The stranger slaps his hand away, offended, and smoothes out his outfit. “ _Anastasia_. And it’s not like it’s better than your… green robe… thing.”

Viktor huffs, hand flayed out on his chest. “It’s a _yukata,_ you uncultured swine. I’ll have you know that this ‘robe’ is made from one of the finest material in the _world_ , and I will not tolerate any kind of degradation of one of the Katsuki family’s greatest heirloom.”

The stranger cringes at that, squinting his eyes at the hem of the yukata. He eyes the tag. “This says _‘made in America_.”

Damn.

“Okay, but at least it’s better than your 1920s disastrous excuse of an attempt. You could have at least put on a wig to hide that blonde hair,” Viktor retorts.

“I don’t have a wig.”

“That sounds like a _you_ problem.”

“Listen _dickface_ , I didn’t come over here to—”

_Thump._

The stranger’s voice hitches as they hear a dull bang behind the door that stands between him and Viktor.

Neither of them breathe.

Silence.

_Thump._

_“OKAY_ , what the fuck and why the shit is it doing that,” the stranger demands, subconsciously moving closer to Victor. Viktor can’t deny that he knowingly moved closer the smaller boy too.

“I don’t know. It’s… It’s never done that before,” Viktor gulps. Shakily, he directs his phone’s flashlight at the ominous door, recording its arrival, waiting.

“It’s a _door_ , it’s not supposed to be doing that _at all,_ ” the stranger reprimands, and Viktor has to physically dig his feet into the floor because _did this guy just push him closer to the door?_ The smaller boy doesn’t look apologetic or shameful at the least.

“Besides,” the stranger continues, moving slowly behind Viktor, “I heard that before too—that’s why I came over here.”

“I thought you were looking for the bathroom?”

“Results from horribly explained directions.”

“Oh.” Figures, it isn’t difficult to get lost in the endless maze of hallways and closets full of tatami mats and robes. Now that he thinks about it, Viktor himself used to get lost all the time when he had just started dating Yuuri. It’s only a matter of time before someone else becomes victim to the labyrinth that is the Katsuki household.

Wait. Viktor freezes. He whips his head towards the stranger, eyebrows furrowed.

“If _you’re_ not the intruder, then what’s behind the door—”

_Thump. A faint sobbing sound._

Both teenagers jump at the noise.  

Viktor gulps. He glances toward the stranger-made-semi-acquaintance for a reaction. It’s too dark to see clearly, but Viktor can make out the faint fidgeting of his fingers from where he stands stiff with his arms tightly crossed, eyes narrowed anxiously. It’s silent, and at this point, neither of them will make any process merely standing still.

“Should we investigate?” Viktor timidly suggests, his voice going a little higher than he anticipated.

The stranger makes a face at him.

“Have you _seen_ horror movies? If you want to get murdered by an axe-wielding maniac, be my fucking guest,” he offers, taking a much larger-than-necessary step backwards.

Viktor scratches his head. “Look on the bright side. If it is, maybe our screams will alert the other guests, and they can make a run for it.”

_“Or_ , we can go down there and tell them ourselves, you self-sacrificing idiot.”

“It would be a nice anecdote to put on my tombstone.”

_Thump._

“If there’s even enough of you left,” the stranger grimaces softly.

_Wow_ , okay, that turned morbid. Viktor frowns at him.

_“Someone_ needs to cheer up.”

“We are literally standing in front of an ominous door that’s been growling and rumbling at us for a solid five minutes with no knowledge of what’s behind it,” the smaller boy points out. “I don’t need to _cheer up_.”

He takes another step backwards. Viktor stares at his movements. A knowing smile spreads on his face.

_“Oh,_ I get it,” Viktor slyly sings.

“Get what?”

Viktor’s smile grows eerily. “You’re _scared_.”

The stranger unhooks his arms from across his chest and glares at him, appalled and offended. Subconsciously, he steps forward in defiance.

“What? No, I’m not. If anything, _you’re_ the one who’s scared. You _screamed_ when I showed up.”

“So what, you’ve been _pushing_ me towards said ominous door this entire time.”

“No, I haven’t.” The stranger’s voice cracks near the end.

Viktor smirks triumphantly. “See? You’re in denial; first sign of lying.”

The blonde animatedly flails his arms. _“That doesn’t even make any sense!”_

“Ha! You’re avoiding the question—another sign.”

_“No,_ you’re just—” the smaller groans in frustration. He brings his hands to his face, stressed, then accusingly points a finger at Viktor. _“Fine_ , if you’re so courageous, then _you_ open the door, you sick bastard.”

Shit.

Viktor straightens out his posture and forces himself to not stutter. _“Fine,_ maybe I will!”

_“Fine!”_

Cursing himself for acting on impulse, Viktor subtly takes in a deep breath, raising his phone to record the door practically looming over them now. Cautiously, he takes a step forward. He can sense the stranger taking shelter behind him.

“Say hi to Satan for me,” he mutters.

Viktor ignores the grumbling teen and calls his inner strength. He can do this. He can do this for Yuuri. Gripping his phone tighter in his hand, Viktor turns the knob and determinedly shoves the door open.

“FOR YUURI!—what?”

The room is still dark as hell; even with his phone’s flash on, Viktor can barely see anything in the blackness, his vision obscured.

Two figures stand in the dark void, black as night, morphing right in front of him. One of them wears a cloak with sequences on the shoulders. It shifts, revealing fishnets and some snazzy heels. The other figure looks up from straightening out the other’s tights and finds Viktor’s eyes. A cocky grin takes over its ghostly face as it slowly lifts up its hands to its chest, making some sort of disturbing symb—

Viktor’s mind reels as he locks on to the key word: _ghostly._

_Ghostly..._

_Ghostly. Adjective._

_Of or like a ghost in appearance or sound; eerie and unnatural._

_Ghost-ly._

_Also, ghost-like…_

_Ghosts..._

Viktor shrieks.

* * *

 

_10:40 PM, Oct. 31st, 2016, Hasetsu Castle--Lobby_

Yuri Plisetsky _hates_ parties—

—especially when it comes to socializing with his peers. There’s an never ending stigma when it comes to forcing himself to make an effort in having a decent conversation. Granted, it’s not as though he enjoys being _lonely,_ but being constantly and socially aware of his surroundings are quickly draining, and he’d rather have alone time than be dragged to an unideal high school party at some random country club in the middle of New York.

Usually, when this sort of thing happens—and it only happens once in a blue moon—Yuri can find himself a secluded corner to camp out and hide in for the rest of the night until he’s begging his grandpa to let him go home. Usually, there’s only his grandpa to hold him back from isolating himself in his room with nothing but his bed, laptop, and every season of “The X-Files”.

But this time, he doesn’t only have his grandpa.

This time, he has a shadow.

He has _Otabek Atlin._

“Are you going to keep following me around for the rest of the party or something?” Yuri groans out, glaring at the taller boy in the corner of his eyes.

He stops, spinning around to face Otabek in frustration, but the other backtracks slightly from the abrupt confrontation. He scratches his head in an awkward manner, looking elsewhere to avoid the piercing scowl on Yuri’s face.

For a party set in a hot spring-based country club, it’s way too crowded than physically necessary. The semi-isolated corner in the lobby Yuri had snatched for himself midway through the celebration is now surrounded with teens too busy making out with each other to bother with anybody else’s comfort level. Yuri cringes at the memory of the repulsive display of affection. It’s no wonder why he’s currently wandering around the lobby in pursuit for a new empty spot he can close himself in.

He would have probably enjoyed himself more—just him and his endless stream of inner monologues—but someone is _really_ making it difficult for him to enjoy the limited peace of mind he just barely retains.

Yuri waits impatiently for Otabek to respond, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. He knows Otabek is trying to avoid any form of conversation, but Yuri is too inconsiderately stubborn to excuse his lack of response. He watches as Otabek shrugs nonchalantly, almost as if he’s trying to test Yuri’s nonexistent patience with him.

“I don’t know many people here,” he says almost pathetically, his words coming out slowly and awkwardly. Yuri suppresses another groan, yielding and shaking his head as he faces away to continue his lookout for another secluded spot.

There’s silence between them—there always is. Yuri would search for his grandpa, but he can already sense the disappointment in him if he were to ask to go home at this hour. Another sigh escapes his lips.

“If you’re looking for a place to sit,” Otabek starts, his voice piercing through Yuri’s periodic scan of the lobby, sounding strangely uncomfortable with the pronunciation, “there’s an empty spot over here.”

Admittedly, Yuri can’t contain the surprise he feels at Otabek’s initiation of conversation, but he forces himself to break away from staring at Otabek’s face to follow his arm, where he’s gesturing to the table right beside him. True to his word, there is—to Yuri’s relief—one last empty chair open for anyone to take.

But before Yuri can act, Otabek beats him to the chair and pushes it out for him, raising an eyebrow when he sees him hesitate. “Well? Are you sitting down or not?”

Yuri flushes and silently does what he’s told. Admittedly, he emits an embarrassing yelp when the back of his knees hit the chair as Otabek pushes it in.

Apparently, chivalry is not dead.

“Thanks…” Yuri mumbles, not meeting the other’s eyes. Through his peripheral vision, he sees him nod once, before allowing their short-lived conversation to dissipate in the air between them.

The faint laughter and obnoxious shouting from other conversations can be heard in the distance around them, but at least from this spot, Yuri doesn’t have to deal with their extremely detailed accounts of gossip.

He risks a short glance at Otabek, hidden behind his bangs. Resting his chin on his propped up hand, he takes this opportunity to scan the young man leaning on the table beside him.

Of course, at first glance, it’s not Yuri’s fault that he mistakenly took Otabek to be an arrogant, conceited show-off—and the tattoos curling around his arm from under his Halloween costume isn’t helping his case. His hair is pulled back into a small bun, flaunting his undercut on full display, and the sword that hangs from his belt gives off an egotistical aura. Not only that, but to top it all off, his demeanor when he leans back on the side of the table makes it seem as though he doesn’t give a shit about anything that goes on around him.

Yuri gives him a puzzling look when he eyes Otabek’s costume.

“Hey,” Yuri says, catching Otabek’s attention. “What are you even supposed to be?”

Otabek looks down at his own costume, as if forgetting who he was dressed up as, himself. “Ah. A Persian.”

Yuri raises an eyebrow. “Is there a specific reason for that?”

“The Greco-Persian Wars were always my favorite period to study.”

“So you dedicated your whole Halloween costume to one war?”

“Series of wars,” Otabek automatically corrects and then adds on: “And my little sister wanted to do my hair.”

Yuri snorts at that.

“At least you put effort in yours,” he comments, playing with the scraps of rags on his own costume.

“You had time,” Otabek counters, “but you were too busy complaining and moping around because your grandpa forced you to come.”

“He only forced me to come because of _you,_ ” Yuri stares at Otabek incredulously, judging and vexed. “If you’ve forgotten already, you transferred over in the middle of the semester and somehow coerced my grandpa into letting you come to this dumbass party.”

“I didn’t _coerce_ him, I just asked. It’s not ma—” Otabek pauses and clears his throat before continuing. “It is not _my_ fault he wanted you to come with me to make more friends.”

“You can make more friends on your own. Besides, he’s here too, why did he make you _my_ burden?” Yuri bitterly mutters more to himself, slumping back into the chair in relapsed frustration. Otabek frowns, clearly unsettled at the open portrayal of annoyance and at the same time, wanting to clear up the tension in the air.

“Well,” he clears his throat awkwardly, “I appreciate you yielding and coming along anyway.”

Yuri stares up at him before he turns his head. “Yeah, whatever.”

The silence envelopes them for the second time that night. It’s awkward this time, both parties acknowledging the tension stemmed from their previous conversation. Yuri drowns himself in the gossip from nearby exchanges to bypass the discomfort. Otabek refuses to glances his way.

“Um,” Otabek starts again, and on one hand, Yuri almost wants to applaud him for trying so hard, and on the other, he just wants Otabek to _shut up_ and _leave him alone, damn it._

“Do you want me to get some drinks?” he continues, forming his words with a slight accent. Yuri sighs, frustrated at the fact that no matter how many times he snaps at Otabek, the latter would merely reciprocate with another act of kindness.

Yuri eyes him, then finally relents.

“Sure,” he says softly, and after a couple moments, even quieter: “thanks.”

Otabek nods, and leaves Yuri to himself while in search of the punch bowl.

Yuri, finally having the opportunity to submerse in his alone time, lets himself relax against the wooden table. He watches quietly as small groups of people engage with others from across the lobby.

Itching to move, Yuri fidgets with his fingers as he waits for Otabek to return. He taps on the mahogany a few times, purposefully glancing around in hopes of not looking like a complete loner.

He sighs flatly as he checks his phone. Scrolling through his feed, he quickly becomes bored and sets it down.

Minutes pass. Yuri twiddles with his thumbs and checks his phone again, then sets it down.

At this point, he just resorts to lying his head down on the table.

It’s not as though Yuri is _that_ impatient, but Otabek has been gone for ten minutes now, and there has been no sign of his return yet.

“He probably got interested in something else,” he murmurs to himself. He lifts his head to glance around the lobby.

Deciding that he’s gotten tired to waiting, he gets up from the table.

_I guess I’ll busy myself, too._

Approaching what he hopes to be a friendly-looking stranger, Yuri taps him on the shoulder. The stranger, dressed in a cylindrical, bland, brown costume, turns and automatically smiles at him. Yuri almost flinches away from the brightness of the red paper that wraps around the costume.

“Hey!” He greets, and without warning, instantaneously puts an arm around Yuri’s shoulder to pull him close. Yuri has to hold back from letting out a scream, until the hoisin sauce shouts too loudly in his ear. “Selfie?”

Yuri doesn’t have the chance to respond, as a flashing light bursts through his peripheral vision, momentarily blinding him from his surroundings as well as reality itself. He rubs his eyes immediately after the assault, while the stranger laughs.

“Oh, that’s a nice one,” he comments enthusiastically, fiddling with his phone while he passionately edits the photo. Yuri scowls at him.

“Hey, what the he—”

“Yeah, hi!” the stranger belatedly welcomes. “The name’s Phichit. Pleasure to meet you. Thanks for giving me a good selfie, by the way.”

Yuri groans at the laughter, internally regretting his decision to approach _this_ person.

“Yuri,” he introduces anyway, despite the rampant headache that’s already morphing in the back of his head. The quickest way out of this hellhole was through, after all. Phichit laughs again, and louder this time, as if he couldn’t already.

“Yuuri? What about him?” he yells over the noise of the party. Yuri doesn’t understand why he decided to yell—it’s not as though the party was that loud anyway.

“What?” Yuri shakes his head. “No, _I’m_ Yuri. Look, I’m just trying to find the bathroom.”

“Oh,” Phichit draws on the vowel. “Nah, I gotchu. A man’s gotta go when a man’s gotta go, am I right or am I right?”

“I have no idea what you just said.”

Phichit pays him no attention and dumps his arm around Yuri’s shoulders, ready to give him directions. “Okay so, you go straight down this hallway, right? Then, you turn left where those two guys are making out—see them? Great. After that, there’s this really ominous staircase—there’s a funny story behind it, actually—but anyway, you go up the staircase, obviously, then go down _that_ hallway, then take a couple turns right, blah blah, then it should be the fourth door to the left. Got it?”

Yuri stares at him.

“Great! Hey, I’m gonna head over to the punch bowl—have fun!”

Wait, punch bowl?

“Wait a min—”

—and Phichit’s gone.

Perfect.

Yuri’s lost count of how many times he’s sighed this one night.

Unwilling, but without a choice, he heads down the hallway and begrudgingly toward the couple making out in the corner. Stopping a few steps before them, he furrows his eyebrows in confusion.

Phichit said to… take a left, then a right? Wait, no, there’s no right turn after the corner. _Shit_ , he’s already forgotten the directions.

Yuri huffs, irritated at the lack of a more coherent explanation. Turning the corner, he’s at least satisfied when there is, in fact, an ominous looking staircase standing before him. And it is _,_ in fact, _very_ sinister looking.

_Perfect._

He wills himself to take the first step, but through the whole process, he’s thinking to himself about _why can’t he just have gone to the damn bathroom on the first floor, what the fuck?_

Whatever.

“Oh, you have to be _fucking_ kidding me.”

As if the first floor wasn’t a complete disaster to go through, the upper level is a damn _labyrinth_. No wonder Phichit’s directions were as scattered as they were—the whole second floor is on a whole other level of the very definition of “clusterfuck”.

Okay, this is fine. Yuri can do this.

He takes a left.

He halts. Didn’t Phichit say to take a right instead? Yuri glances back. Only the sweet embrace of darkness greets him. He whips his head to the front.

_This is it. I’m going to die tonight._

No, just—

Remember what Phichit said.

....What _did_ Phichit say?

Fuck.

Yuri is definitely not panicking right now.

Spontaneously, he makes a right at the next corner, deciding that his fate isn’t going to change with him abusing his lackluster memory.

He’s about to make another right turn when he hears a distant, dull _thump_ coming from the opposite direction. He stops, listens as he peers down the corridor, perturbed.

Another _thump_ , followed by hasty shuffling.

Yuri is _definitely_ going to die tonight.

No, _no_ , he’s not going to let himself be killed in the bathroom of some country club in the middle of New York. Instead, Yuri’s going to turn around, and go back downstairs where it’s least likely that he’ll be murdered in cold blood.

He’s going to turn around, turn left at the corner—

Wait, or was it a right?

Double fuck.

Left stranded in the middle of what seems like nowhere and everywhere at the same time, Yuri stares frozen down the abyss of darkness.

With no other option and damning his curiosity to hell, he ventures deeper into the maze. A light spontaneously emerges from the end of the hallway. Yuri flinches. He can make out a figure looming by the door on the left side, mumbling to themselves as they struggle with the door knob.

Holy _fuck_.

Mustering up his courage, Yuri pulls his best threatening facade.

“What are you doing?”

* * *

 

_11: 26 PM, Oct. 31st, 2016, Hasetsu Castle--Lobby_

Phichit is a simple man. When he sees someone hot, he gets a selfie. When he sees someone in need of his most desirable assistance, he tries his best to ease their troubles with his charms.

All things considering, maybe he _shouldn’t_ be hopping around the party taking selfies with every single person he bumps into when he’s the designated “responsible one” of the group, and maybe he _shouldn’t_ have drank too much of that butterbeer when there was hints of alcohol in it.

But Phichit’s slightly buzzed, and his judgement’s probably blurry by now.

The context taken into consideration, he _definitely_ shouldn’t be wobbling around the party when he’s in the physical state that he’s in, especially because he could get caught by the Demon of Hasetsu High School at any rate when _he’s slightly buzzed_ , but his judgement is _definitely_ skewered and frankly, he couldn’t give a shit anymore.

Plus, he’s tired of hearing Georgi rant on and on about how he lost “the love of his life” to a huge jackass for the fourth time that night while dressed in that ridiculous Maleficent costume.

“He’s not paraphrasing Maleficent, he’s venting about Anya,” Yuuri says, frowning. Phichit can almost feel his disapproval radiating off him, but at this point, Phichit’s judgement is now probably on the highway to hell.

“Who dumped his ass _three months_ ago,” Phichit retaliates. “I can’t believe he’s still…”

_I can’t believe he’s still chasing after her_ , he wants to say, but nothing could prepare him for the sudden pull that draws him toward the pitiful sight that is: the hottest guy in existence trapped in a conversation with a certain someone none other than Lilia Baranovskaya, the Demon of Hasetsu High School. The sight is even more pitiful than Georgi’s Maleficent costume and state of mind, and Phichit feels a sudden urge to just get up and leave.

Granted, said attractive man is wearing a colorful parrot costume—

A parrot costume.

An interesting choice of attire, but the face that pops out amidst the colorful range of puffed feathers is attractive nonetheless.

“Hey, I’m gonna borrow these for a second—I’ll be right back,” he hears himself saying, instinctively grabbing two plastic red cups out of a random someone’s hands and heading off to said attractive guy.

He can feel his body moving, but the cogs in his mind have malfunctioned. He’s a _Junior_ in _High School_ for fuck’s sake, he shouldn’t have been spying around in the kitchen or have given in to beverages Ms. Okukawa offered while in her drunken state some hours ago. Phichit grimaces at the slight alcohol that tinted the drink.

Should teachers even offer alcohol tinted beverages to their students?

Should teachers have been drunk at a school associated party in the first place?

There is absolutely no logic embedded within those morals, nor is there any logic left in this night either.

So, Phichit, accordingly, abandons all logic with being slightly buzzed while heading towards a hot guy and his school’s vice principal.

“Hellooo,” he drawls out, daringly slinging an arm around the vice principal’s shoulders, making sure to balance the double cups in his hands. Maybe if he weren’t so stupid, he would have sprinted away the moment he caught wind of Ms. Baranovskaya’s death glare. “I see your Mrs. Frizzle costume is as colorful as ever, Ms. Baranovskaya.”

Whether or not Ms. Baranovskaya wished for his death at that moment is something Phichit wishes he will never know in his lifetime.

“Ah, Mr. Chulanont,” she says almost threateningly, her voice shifting to a lower octave. She lifts her vineyard burgundy wineglass and nods toward the stranger in the parrot costume. “Mr. Lee and I were conversing about the sustainable natural resources in rainforests and its impact on the wildlife there, particularly the ah, parrots.”

“That is—” _not what I was expecting_ “—a _very_ interesting topic.”

“Yes, fascinating, isn’t it?” Ms. Baranovskaya comments, as she sips her wine glass and smacks her lips. “Now, Mr. Lee, tell me, what if someone were to just… _destroy_ all these rainforests. What would happen then?”

Silence.

Phichit releases his grasp from the vice principal’s shoulder and slowly takes a step back.

The stranger shifts, uncrossing his arms to grab a small beverage from—is that the Persian dude again?—the latter merely sighing in resignation as he retreats back to the punchbowl. The green and red feathers loosely attached to the stranger’s Halloween outfit sway ever so freely under his arms. Phichit wonders how he could miraculously hold the glass cup when the sleeves of his costume stretch over his hands.

“In actuality,” the stranger retorts back, pausing to take a sip from the drink, “many parrot species live in snowy climates, such as the maroon-fronted parrots, thick-billed parrots and keas.”

He takes another sip. “Ah, but I don’t expect you to know that.”

Woah.

What the _fuck._

Phichit immediately regrets stepping into this landmine. He watches in horror as Ms. Baranovskaya passively stares down at the parrot stranger, calming twirling the wine in the glass between her fingers. Phichit’s arms have fully retracted back into their own space, clutching the two plastic cups close to his body.

The parrot stranger merely takes another sip looking elsewhere, disinterested.

“No worries,” the vice principal reassures, “this conversation hasn’t indulged me enough to take into consideration the many parrot species that live in colder climates.”

Parrot Stranger’s mouth twists at the corner.

“How unfortunate,” she continues. “Were you not attempting to promote the survival of those same endangered parrots? It seems as though your salesman tactic is at best, adequate.”

Phichit has the strong desire to crawl into the floor and escape this situation, but the fear of fucking up in an unnatural transition to runaway has already dominated his mind set. He begrudgingly admits that he has no other choice but to keep his foot on the landmine.

“I wouldn’t worry about the endangered parrots, Ms. Baranovskaya. In fact, parrots have tremendously strong beaks to efficiently _snap_ open nut shells and dig _infectious_ insects out of the ground,” Parrot Guy calmly informs. He doesn’t take a sip this time, but instead stares unwavering into the vice principal’s eyes in absolute defiance. “Isn’t the main function of an assistant principal to regulate the smooth and successful operation of the school? The last I remembered, most students are still worried about the many bathrooms dysfunctioning on the second floor; I hear many students feel unprotected at this school, let alone are unable to even step into them.”

Ms. Baranovskaya endures in silence.

Parrot Guy adds, “I’m deeply worried that your occupation will be at stake just because of your own inadequacy.”

“I suppose we both have our own little inadequacies. I remain lacking in the safety and well-being in the school, while you continue to let your incompetence obstruct your leadership as the student council president. Tell me, how are you dealing with the worries of the same classmates who didn’t even vote for you?”

“I can only wish their concerns are properly dealt with.”

“I’m sure you have done much to ease their anguish with your reclusive attitude.”

“That reminds me, how is life after your divorce?”

The glass shatters in Ms. Baranovskaya’s grasp.

Phichit takes that as a que to get the _fuck_ out of there.

“Ah, _well_...” Phichit interrupts, clearing his throat loudly. “I’m _really_ sorry to interrupt what seems to be a— _delightful_ conversation, but I was actually told that Mr. Lee’s help is needed in the um, kitchen.”

Their little debate has been dragging unnecessary attention towards the two, nonetheless creating a horrible, hostile atmosphere for the country club. Phichit, being the life of the party, has in fact, _many_ regrets when he intervenes in this full-on war, but he isn’t about to let two inadequacies ruin a party that Yuuri is hosting.

Ms. Baranovskaya, who is undeniably giving Phichit a death glare, turns her attention back towards the student council president. “I was unaware you had the ability to handle a stove, Mr. Lee.”

“Yep, he’s an excellent chef,” Phichit interrupts before the other could open his mouth again, shoving one of the cups against Parrot Guy’s chest and grabbing his wrist, running away before the landmine can explode. “Best be going—Mr. Lee needs to make some more, uh, meatballs.”

The situation’s uncomfortable, and truth be told, Phichit doesn’t know what he’s doing. He pulls on Parrot Guy’s wrist without a struggle until they’re somewhere Ms. Baranovskaya’s _not_ , and Phichit only lets go when they make it across the lobby and near an isolated spot near the staircase.

He’s starting to have second thoughts. Maybe Phichit shouldn’t be doing this. Maybe he shouldn’t have barged in between the student council president and the Demon of Hasetsu High School, even if Parrot Guy really _is_ one of the hottest guys he’s seen. Not even the alcohol tinted beverages Ms. Okukawa offered him could hide the fact that his ass is _fucked_ the day they go back to school—which is tomorrow.

He wonders if saving Yuuri’s reputation as the school counselor’s perfect, impeccable son is worth killing his own. Nevertheless, what’s done is done, and Phichit has no other choice but to own up to his own actions.

This situation is _horribly_ awkward and stressful, but Phichit still manages to turn around and face Parrot Guy, albeit with the most distressed expression he could muster.

“What the _fuck?_ ”

Parrot Guy stares down at him, expression stoic, and remains silent, seemingly without a care in the world and seemingly unaware that he just offended the Devil herself. The stress in Phichit sky rockets.

“Just—what the—” Phichit sputters out, arms flaying everywhere and mind twirling, “— _fuck!?”_

The student council president sightly narrows his eyes, setting down the two plastic cups on a nearby table. “I could ask you the same.”

“What— _no,”_ Phichit denies, finger out and pointing accusingly. “I’m not the one who provoked the _Vice Principal!”_

“Nor am I the one who spontaneously pulls a stranger away from a situation that was perfectly handled.”

“‘ _Perfectly handled’_ he says,” Phichit huffs indignantly, crossing his arms across his chest as he tips forward on his toes to get to eye level. “You have a _death wish_.”

“Obviously, I don’t,” Parrot Guy retorts, scoffing as he also crosses his arms and tilts his head. “If I had, clearly I wouldn’t be here.”

“Did you just take that literally? You _literally_ took that phrase literally.”

“Do you have any business with me?”

Phichit pauses.

“Not necessarily,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “I guess I don’t anymore, but—”

“Then, goodbye—”

“ _Hold on,_ ” Phichit demands, reaching out to grab onto Parrot Guy’s shoulder just as he turns away. “You can’t just _leave_ like that. What the _hell_.”

“You said you didn’t have any business with me,” Parrot Guy says, uncomfortably shifting the shoulder that’s currently suffering under Phichit’s tight grasp.

“Well, now I do—”

Phichit flinches back when Parrot Guy turns to face him. He raises an eyebrow— _which, holy shit, impressive—_ and stares expectantly at him. He finally manages to shrug Phichit’s hand off his shoulder and fixes his posture, smoothing out the tarnished feathers hanging from his costume. “Well? I don’t have all day.”

Phichit scoffs and points his finger at the other. “First, may I just say you have some wonderful eyebrows, very expressive. Second, I don’t see many people lining up for lectures on the rain forest’s wildlife.”

The initial complement seems to throw Parrot Guy off guard, if only for a second, before he narrows his eyes. “Are you ever going to get to the point?”

“ _Third_ ,” Phichit continues, and Parrot Guy inwardly huffs at him, “you’re at a party associated with the school and hosted by my best friend, the one and only, Yuuri Katsuki, and I will _not_ have his reputation ruined by your own passive aggressive grudge against Baranovskaya.”

Parrot Guy eyes him for a good moment—and Phichit almost wants to turn tail and run under the intensity of it—before he breaks away and inwardly sighs.

“You’re right. Apologies.”

“Apologies accepted. Thanks.”

Parrot Guy glares at him for that. Phichit quirk his lips upward in an amused smile.

“Just kidding. You’re easy to rile up.”

“Anyhow,” Parrot Guy continues, “there’s no need to worry anymore, since I’ll be taking my leave soon.”

“Already? It’s not even midnight yet.”

“If you weren’t aware, tomorrow is Monday.”

Phichit nods, unperturbed.

“We have school on Monday.”

He blinks.

“I wake up at five in the morning to go to school.”

Phichit finally breaks from his stance, flinching back while making obviously fake puking sounds. Parrot Guy gawks at him incredulously.

“Oh, _god_ , that’s disgusting,” Phichit croaks out.

“Going to school?”

“No, waking up.”

Parrot Guy stares at him in disappointment. Phichit continues to shake his head in disapproval.

“Why would the school even allow a Halloween party this late on a Sunday?”

“Well, technically speaking,” Parrot Guy suddenly says seriously, and Phichts gets startled from his abrupt shift in tone, “this party isn’t actually school associated, but known throughout the school faculty as an annual Halloween Party despite disapproval from the higher ups on the school board. However, because Principal Plisetsky has lead this school for more than thirty years, he has gained far more respect than necessary to allow a small get together that occurs once every school year. Furthermore, due to the fact that Mrs. Katsuki has just started as our school’s new counselor, as well as the fact that her husband runs a country club, it was only right that she volunteer as this year’s hostess.”

Parrot Guy sighs, as he scans the room with dead eyes. “Though, with the availability of alcohol and both teachers and students present, I’m not sure how long this school tradition can continue.”

Phichit gapes at him in bewilderment, before a gust of laughter washes over him.

“What are you, a walking wikipedia?” he laughs, intrigued by the whole situation.

“No, I’m the student council president.”

Parrot Guy shifts to leave, but the alcohol Phichit drank is making its return. He’s already faced the gates of hell once by interfering between the student council president and the Demon of Hasetsu High, and it’s probably the alcohol speaking now, but Phichit finds that he doesn’t care anymore. At any rate, he firmly decides that he really doesn’t have anything left to lose, and Parrot Guy is still ridiculously hot.

Phichit leans forward to grab his wrist.

“Hey,” he says, mind momentarily empty of anything, really, “let’s take a selfie together.”

Parrot Guy freezes, and for a moment Phichit thinks that he might have made a mistake, but despite the fact that his breath hitches in his throat, he can’t bring himself to unlatch his fingers from his wrist.

“What? What is that?” Parrot Guy asks, but doesn’t take his arm away.

“You don’t know what a _selfie_ is?” Phichit snaps out of his daze, immediately disturbed by the lack of culture from the student council president. He confirms again with himself that he _really_ doesn’t have anything left for him to lose, then boldly takes a step forward to wind his arm with Parrot Guy’s. The latter jumps, but does nothing to stop the arm twirling around his. Phichit breathes out in relief. “Then allow me to introduce you.”

Phichit shifts his body, fishing for his phone in the pockets of his costume, and then twindles with it for a moment, never minding the body so closely pressed to his side.

“See, look up here,” he instructs, holding out his phone in an upward angle. He laughs when he sees an anguished expression in the screen. “Come on, you have to _smile_ for it.”

Parrot Guy points pathetically at the phone screen, “This is it? A picture?”

“It’s _more_ than just the pictures, my dear student council president,” Phichit dramatically gasps. “It’s the memories we make along the way.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem as though we came very far.”

Phichit shushes him. Parrot Guy relents and stares back up into the camera. Phichit, satisfied, repositions his hand again.

“Okay, on the count of three,” he says. Phichit doesn’t bother him for another smile, but instead smiles big enough for the both of them, worries and concerns practically nonexistent.

“One.”

Maybe this night isn’t so bad. Sure, Phichit had almost faced death tonight, but the thought of Yuuri’s reputation not going down the drain encourages him to go all out and have the time of his life, too.

“Two.”

And besides, Parrot Guy is hot, and Phichit is all about taking selfies with hot guys in bright, colorful parrot costumes.

Yeah, maybe everything will turn out fine.

“Three—”

A scream erupts from above, footsteps thunder from the stairway, but the next thing Phichit realizes is that his back is pushed from behind, an arm twists around his waist, but his own arm bends at an awkward angle, and his phone flies into the vineyard burgundy wineglass of—

“Oh, hello Mrs. Baranovskaya. Fancy seeing you here again.”

Phichit is _so_ fucked.

* * *

 

_11:19 PM, Oct. 31st, 2016, Hasetsu Castle--Lobby_

Yuuri sips some water from his red plastic cup, quenching the thirst that stemmed from before. He watches as Phichit excitedly approaches random people to take selfies with them to distract him from the embarrassment before, but he inevitably groans.

The blush washes over his face again as he continues to mentally rewatch the scene in his room.

Dicks? Pics? _Really_?

_Fuck_ , that’s embarrassing.

The water in the miniature fountain is starting to look tempting enough to drown himself in when Phichit practically runs into him.

“Yuuri, take a selfie with me!” he basically screeches, throwing an arm around his shoulder. Yuuri complies, an awkward smile on his face. Phichit’s about to take the picture when he spots someone in the background of the shot.

“Hey, you!” he shouts. The unknown male, innocently attempting to juggle two cups in one hand while using the other to pour punch in them, looks up, visibly shocked. Realizing that he’s in the background, he quickly apologizes and ducks away.

Phichit makes a sound of disapproval. “No, wait—come here!”

The stranger awkwardly shuffles over to the duo, obvious confusion shrouded on his face. Phichit smiles.

“Selfie!”

Yuuri sighs, but once again adheres to his friend’s request. He hears Phichit make a sound of satisfaction when he sees him look the newcomer up and down.

“Damn, nice costume,” he remarks, playing with the leather that lay on his shoulder. “What are you—a Greek?”

The stranger cringes, “Persian, actually.”

Phichit whistles, “Nice. Really defines your abs”

“Um, thank you.”

Yuuri almost wants to laugh at the awkwardness, but stops himself, because damn, wasn’t he just accusing _himself_ of being an awkward potato?

“It _is_ a nice costume,” Yuuri adds in, in an attempt to comfort the poor guy. “I’m Yuuri, this is Phichit. Enjoying the party?”

He nods, shrugging. “I got caught up in a ten minute conversation with Mr. Plisetsky, though.”

Both Phichit and Yuuri finch at that.

“Ouch, that’s never fun. What was he dressed up as again?” Phichit snarkily asks, then directs his attention to some commotion on the opposite side of the room. “Shut _up_ , Georgi, no one wants to see your Maleficent impression,” he lazily shouts.

When Yuuri frowns disappointedly at him, Phichit shrugs. “He’s been saying the same emo shit for the whole night, you can’t blame me for finally expressing the opinion of the whole crowd.”

“He’s not paraphrasing Maleficent, he’s venting about Anya.”

“Who dumped his ass _three months_ ago, I can’t believe he’s still…” Phichit lets his words die, staring off at a sight behind Yuuri. Yuuri furrows his eyebrows in confusion, but before he can question him, Phichit abruptly grabs the two cups out of the stranger’s hands and wonders off.

“Hey, I’m gonna borrow these for a second—I’ll be right back,” he thanks as he disappears into the crowd.

The stranger opens his mouth, closes it, and stares at his empty hands still in the same position. Yuuri sighs at Phichit’s actions.

“Sorry about that. He acts with his heart, but never his brain.”

“That’s okay.” he shrugs again. “Um, he seems nice.”

“Yeah, he’s a good person,” Yuuri grimaces, “deep down there somewhere.”

Silence.

“Um, I never got your name?” Yuuri asks, when he turns back to the stranger. The latter clears his throat before answering.

“It’s Otabek.”

“Hm? Quebec?”

“No,” he clarifies, “ _Otabek._ ”

Yuuri nods in understanding. “You’re the new transfer student that everyone’s been talking about, then?”

“And you must be the host.”

“Regretfully, yes, I am the host. My parents are basically killing themselves in the kitchen right now.”

Otabek flinches at that. “Ouch.”

“Right?” Yuuri nods. “What about you?”

Otabek looks at him, surprised.

“Your parents? How did your transfer go?” he elaborates.

Otabek hesitates, avoiding eye contact, “Ah…”

Realizing that it might have been a sore subject, Yuuri is quick to change topic, slightly panicking. “Ah, well, nevermind. I guess we all have those days, right?” he chuckles softly, but Otabek merely stares at him with a weak, confused expression, only nodding when Yuuri nods.

More silence.

Yuuri has never felt this awkward in his life.

“I think I’m going to get more punch,” Otabek announces, and Yuuri couldn’t have been any more thankful.

“That’s right, you had two cups, didn’t you?” Yuuri asks, for the sake of continuing the conversation, “Who’re you bringing it for?”

“Um, Yu—”

“Yuuri!”

Yuuri startles, whipping around to see Mr. Plisetsky slowly making his way over to the punchbowl. Yuuri watches as their school principal is greeted respectfully by the students and staff that stand scattered throughout the lobby.  

“Mr. Plisetsky,” Yuuri greets, “how is your night going? I hope you’re enjoying the party.”

“I haven’t had this much beer in _years_ ,” Mr. Plisetsky slurs, patting Yuuri on the shoulder for support.

“Oh no,” Yuuri mutters under his breath, but ends up only smiling and nodding in agreement. He sneaks a glance at Otabek, who’s wide-eyed and probably forever scarred by the scene. Yuuri only pities him a little bit.

“It’s kind of a school tradition here,” he explains to Otabek. He whips his head from Yuuri to the supposed school principal multiple times before settling a disturbed gaze back on former.

“You mean… this is normal?” he hesitantly questions, meekly pointing to the drunk principal.

“Over here it is. It’s an annual Halloween party, and my mom just happened to volunteer even though she’s aware that there’s alcohol here,” Yuuri mutters the last part, more like a soliloquy than anything else.

Otabek gives him a distraught expression. “That means it’s normal for students and teachers to get drunk in the same place?”

“And high,” Yuuri jokingly adds on, and almost laughs when the transfer student looks like he’s about to shit himself. “Welcome to New York, Otabek.”

“I think I’m going to go get some more punch after all,” he says, swiftly ducking out of the situation to run away. Yuuri sighs at his retreating figure.

“Don’t worry about it, Yuuri,” Mr. Plisetsky assures, waving Otabek off. “That boy will get used to it someday. He’ll blend in easily with those abs.”

Yuuri lets out a huff. “That reminds me, who are you dressed up as, Mr. Plisetsky?”

“Ah, so you’ve noticed,” he responds gruffly, stepping back to show off what seemed to be like everyday attire.

_No, I’m asking because I didn’t notice anything,_ Yuuri thinks.

Mr. Plisetsky flaps the tan jacket backward in a superfluous notion, arms spread out wide.

“I’m Carl!”

Yuuri stares at him.

Mr. Plisetsky beams back, expectant.

“I… I’m sorry, who?”

“ _Carl_! You know the man, Carl Fredricksen!”

Another blank expression.

Mr. Plisetsky drops his arms. “The old man from _Up_.”

Yuuri’s face brightens, as he makes a sound of recognition, nodding his head in approval.

“You children have no respect for true art,” Mr. Plisetsky scowls. “I can’t believe you didn’t know the names of the characters from the world’s most respected animated film.”

“Maybe I should watch _Up_ again, then,” Yuuri suggests, trying to ease his overly dramatic frustration.

“You should’ve seen my dear Yurio,” the principal continues, and Yuuri feels his stomach almost drop by the mention. “I tried to get him to dress up as that boy, Russell, but he only hisses at me nowadays. He’s like a cranky little kitty, Yuuri, you wouldn’t believe it.”

“It must be his rebel phrase,” Yuuri reassures, not sure on what to say about the principal’s grandson. Any bad word from him, and he’s basically done for—or so he’s heard. Yuri Plisetsky is infamously known throughout the school as a one-way ticket to hell; those who talk to him are practically asking to get expelled one way or another.

“The only way I could get him to come was if I dropped the Russell act, but then he just put on some rags and started spewing out how he was going dressed as some girl named Anya. Who even is that?” Mr. Plisetsky rubs at his beard in deep thought.

“Ah, I think he might be going as _Anastasia_ , Mr. Plisetsky,” Yuuri says.

The principal grunts. “That boy is just misunderstood. It’s no wonder he doesn’t have many friends. You know, that’s the reason I had Otabek come here with him.”

Yuuri doesn’t know how to respond to that. He sees a flash of red out of the corner of his eyes and spots Otabek returning to the punchbowl, hands empty once more.

“Well, speak of the devil,” Mr. Plisetsky huffs out. Yuri gives the newcomer a strange look.

“Otabek? You already finished the punch?”

Otabek looks up at Yuuri, but sighs, defeated.

“No, they were taken.”

“Again?”

“By a parrot man.”

“A _parrot man_?”

Otabek nods, solemnly. He stares at the punchbowl before resigning, redirecting his gaze. Something clicks in Yuuri’s head.

“Oh, you must’ve wanted to bring those cups to Yuri,” he connects, only for it to be confirmed by Otabek’s solemn nod.

Mr. Plisetsky grunts behind him. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re trying, old sport. That boy needs a friend.”

He takes a moment to gather himself a plastic cup of punch before continuing, “Speaking of _friends_ , how’s Viktor doing, Yuuri?”

“W-what?” Yuuri stutters, taken aback. “He’s fine— _we’re_ fine.

“I would have expected to see him attached by your side. You and him are like two tuna in a canister.”

“‘Two peas in a pod’?”

Mr. Plisetsky gives him finger guns. “Exactly.”

Yuuri tries not to cringe at that. He tilts his head, anxious. “Actually, he should already be here by now. It’s been half an hour.”

A scream bursts from the floor above them.

Footsteps thump loudly on the stairs.

Someone comes crashing into Yuuri’s side, making him spill some of his water. Arms wrap themselves around his waist and screams echo in his ear. He’s having a hard time trying to process what the fuck just happened when he hears Mr. Plisetsky’s deep throaty laugh.

“Viktor, my boy! Glad to see you made it to the party.”

Yuuri looks down to see Viktor pitifully burying his face in the fabric of Yuuri’s katsudon costume.

“V… Viktor?” he gapes. He sets his cup down on the table as he caresses his face. “Are you okay? Where’s your costume, what happened?”

“Yuuri, I shit you not, there’s someone—some _thing_ upstairs in the storage room!” is all Yuuri can make out before Viktor descends back into incoherent rambling.

“Wait, wait, Viktor. What did you see? Did someone break in?” Yuuri questions, just on the verge of getting frantic too. People start to gather around, speculating the scene unfolding in front of them.

“Yuuri, it was, it was—” Viktor starts again.

“Yes?” Yuuri presses, holding his breath.

“It was a _ghost_!”

Silence.

“A what?”

“A ghost!” Viktor stares, wide eyes staring intensely into Yuuri’s. Yuuri is too confounded to look away.

“A… ghost?”

“Yes, a _spirit ._ ”

Yuuri lets out the breath he had been holding. “Viktor, there is no such thing as ghosts, and if there were, they wouldn’t be here.”

Viktor flails his arms around defiantly.

“No, no, no, no,” he lifts a finger up to Yuuri’s lips, “ _no_.”

Yuuri sighs.

“No, listen to me,” Viktor continues. The few people around them is starting to turn into a crowd. Yuuri cringes at the sight, a sense of self-consciousness growing in his stomach. “I didn’t believe in them either! But it literally started to morph itself in front of me! There were two of them! Not gonna lie, I think I ran into one near the staircase.”

Phichit pushes through the crowd to shove Viktor to the side. He’s sweating, his hair’s a mess, and his breath hitches every so often. Yuuri’s confusion escalates.

“You ran into _me_ , dumbass,” he chokes out, his hand grasping tightly onto Viktor’s arm for support as if he were grasping onto life itself.

“The point still stands,” Viktor pushes. “It was a _ghost!_ ”

Phichit pops up, seemingly not out of breath anymore, and deliriously looks around the lobby, “Huh? A ghost? Where?”

Yuuri sighs. “Hell, Phichit, you too?”

“I just witnessed the gates of hell opening right in front of my eyes. Ain’t no ghost gonna scare me now.”

“Well, it seems as though you were pretty frantic.”

“Hey, this is some serious shit, Yuuri,” Phichit declares, hand over his chest. “Even I, myself, have come across these so-called spirits as well.”

“The only spirit that will haunt Hasetsu is mine when my parents find out if someone broke in or not,” Yuuri scolds.

“It was huge, guys!” Viktor exclaims, getting everyone back on subject. “It was tall and hairy—I think there was some glitter and feathers? I don’t know.”

“Oh, kinky. What did the other one look like?” Phichit inquires. Yuuri gives him a dead look.

“I don’t remember, I couldn’t see him that well. But! It was still there regardless. It was smaller than the hairy one.”

Yuuri groans at them again.

“Yuuri, just think about it,” Viktor tries to explain desperately. “What day is it today? Halloween. What day do ghosts become most active? _Halloween_.”

Phichit makes explosive noises. “Boom.”

“Okay, first of all, Phichit, shut up,” Yuuri frowns at his friend as Phichit retreats backward, forearms raised in an act of surrender. “Second of all, you don’t know that for a fact because you didn’t believe in ghosts before this. Third of all, Halloween is a man-made _holiday_. That doesn’t mean ghosts become more active on this day in particular.”

“But, _Yuuri,_ ” Viktor makes one last attempt to persuade his non-believing boyfriend. “You know what else is man-made?”

Yuuri sighs. “What?”

“ _Ghosts_.”

Phichit whoops as he makes more exploding sound effects with his mouth. Viktor hollers in the background.

Yuuri shakes his head, eyes squinting at the overhyped duo. “What? No, that doesn’t make any sense—”

“ _Illuminati confirmed, bitch_.”

“Viktor, please—” Yuuri groans. The crowd surrounding them, not knowing what the hell is going on but with nothing better to do, join Phichit and Viktor in screaming.

“ _Fuck yeah! Ghosts!”_

Yuuri regrets prompting his mom to host a Halloween party. He regrets inviting so many people. Yuuri regrets a lot of things at that moment, as he watches defeatedly as the crowd gradually shifts its way outside slowly, Viktor leading the parade of people. Only Phichit stays behind with him, albeit still screaming and fist-bumping with those in the now distant crowd.

“Even if it wasn’t ghosts, no one is supposed to be upstairs,” Yuuri says his thoughts outloud, eyes slightly clouded with worry.

“Actually, I think I remember Chris and JJ arriving at the party late. They didn’t have time to get into their costume beforehand, so I told them to change upstairs,” Phichit points out. He nods confidently as he starts to make out the memory. “Yeah, I remember taking a selfie with them when they came.”

Yuuri slowly turns to face Phichit with a dark expression. “Wasn’t Chris going to dress up as a—”

“—a sexy bigfoot with fishnets? Yes.”

Yuuri cringes at Viktor’s triumphant shouting outside.


End file.
